To Build a Home
Murtagh had been picky and meticulous for the location where he and Thorn would spend their time in the forest.
First off, he wanted water nearby that had fish. The only problem was that the large rivers and lakes were miles away to the East. The elves felt that, as the large bodies of water were far away from the edge of the forest and the core of their society, that would not be allowed as an option. So Murtagh had flown on Thorn's back until they found the largest river, which was just a moderate sized stream, and landed down to decide. It wasn't that small when he wasn't hundreds of feet above it and it had a soft sandy shore that shone with a spattering of worn river rocks. Thorn had immediately leaped into the river once Murtagh had dismounted, allowing his body to dam up the entire thing before it flowed over his scaled body.
Thorn lifted his head and bellowed a roar of acceptance and Murtagh put his hands on his hips, still doubtful and not so easily swayed. In addition to the small river and bank, there was a small clearing of long green grass (probably from a great increase of water in the stream that had ripped the trees away) and there was a spot that looked flat enough for the cottage he was planning to build. The elves had tried to convince him to build a tree-house and he had given them a silent, blank look that had spoken more than enough.
Walking around the clearing, Murtagh noticed there were too many trees and pines for his liking nearby, and so called over Thorn who whined at the order. He seemed to be enjoying the running water from the mountain too much, or maybe it was how he had been filling his time by nipping at the small fish that darted around him in chaos.
Won't the elves get angry?
I'll replant them wherever you propel them. It's just a surprise move for these slow things called trees.
And so Thorn stood out of the river, dripping water onto the bank and grass as he walked to the edges of the small field. He reared his head and used his clawed paw to pull up one tree and then another, throwing them over the forest canopy with ease. As he did this, Murtagh muttered ancient words and the trees landed upright, their roots digging back into the fertile soil. Using more magic, Murtagh covered the gaping holes of the dirt with more from nearby before ordering the grass to grow over. When he was finished, Murtagh sagged against Thorn who had sat aside of him, and his dragon gave him a little of his strength. Murtagh reasoned that it was much easier pulling out the trees than replanting them.
When they looked out and saw the mini-meadow of grass and slight wildflowers of bright yellows and reds, an addition Murtagh hadn't personally seen to, the rider nodded. Thorn gave his own deep growl of contentment, too, as it had plenty room for him to stretch out, as well as land without worry for tearing his membraned wings on branches.
It was only later, now, when Murtagh realized that the canopy for landings wouldn't be a problem, as the dragon mostly lazed around, his tongue flicking out in lame attempts to catch fluttering-by butterflies. But at the time the place had looked only fresh and ready, and so Murtagh set to work building his cabin.
Knowing that the elves would have a true fit if he cut down any trees, he was forced to resort to stalking the woods to find dead trunks whose wood was bleached by the sun and ready to become something else. This part was laborous, as he had to search miles far and wide before hauling them back with Thorn's help, and was only second to building the house itself. He cut the wood into boards with Zar'roc (the metal biting through the wood easily) before nailing them together with the hilt, the ruby glimmering in the light as if in anger for being reduced to such a domestic task as being a hammer.
But build it he did, and when Murtagh stood in contentment, wiping his brow and letting out a sigh, Thorn gave him a nudge from behind. Murtagh slowly turned and saw a group of elves as they set certain things down on the fringe of their forest before slipping back out of sight.
In the sacks and ceramic jars he had found seeds and a small number of labeled plants in pots that would help him be self-sufficient. They also left intricate rugs and pieces of furniture; tables made out of the trunk of a tree and chairs that had carved vines. Or maybe they had sung the vines to crawl before turning them into wood. The item he was most grateful for was the large mattress of pressed cotton and goose feathers, the blankets placed atop feeling of silk and soft wool.
With these items his small, empty house wasn't so empty anymore. When he finished rearranging it all, he again took a moment to sigh. His cabinets and shelves were now covered, if only sparsely, and in the open windowsills sat the few plants. On one of his hooks hung his Father's sword in its hilt, and it seemed out of place. This amused Murtagh as it was the only possession that was truly his to everything else. It seemed a little odd to have so many possessions when he was used to having nothing at all.
Thorn ducked his snout through the archway and had given a snort of smoke that filtered up to the beamed roof.
Not so bad for our prison, Murtagh thought to him.
Murtagh remembered how his dragon nodded in return before lumbering back out to the shallow river bank. Yet not before he gave his rider a painful lick up his right cheek that had Murtagh's scowling for a different reason.
Color theme 094: Sand; Word Count: 1,000
Posted on the 18th of January, 2011
